


Last of the Sindar

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: 1757 AU, Gigolas Big Bang 2015, M/M, Romance, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi-modern AU, 1757 North America during the Seven Years War. Legolas is the only elf in the 13 colonies, having sailed West in the hopes of finding Valinor. </p><p>Gimli, having grown up in the upright, sheltered, minority dwarf community in Delaware, journeys north in the hopes of adventure and profit before he settles down to a sensible marriage and life......</p><p>(Some slight resemblance to a certain book by Mr Fennimore Cooper and indeed the film....)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a historical AU. Some of the opinions and actions within it are not those that would be acceptable today, and I don't condone them.
> 
> I have tried to get my history right, any mistakes I am happy to be informed of, and will attempt to correct - otherwise, well, its an AU? Elves and dwarves and so on maybe changed history a little.....
> 
> I have tried also with languages - any errors I am delighted to be corrected, or you could simply assume the characters (for various reasons) don't speak these languages perfectly themselves. I doubt any of them had much formal schooling.....  
>  
> 
> .

“Very well,” I say, and I shake his hand, a done deal, “I’ll set out with them tomorrow – it’s what – three days journey you say?”

The sergeant nods, and then hands me a map, and a letter of agreement,

“Keep this on you,” he says, “show it to the colonel at Fort William Henry. You’ll be welcome there, master dwarf, and I reckon your family’ll have cause to thank you for this day’s work – King George don’t forget those who help him, and nor do we.”

Not so sure about all that, I think as I leave his makeshift office, his table in the corner of this dingy bar, my papers in my hand, my eyes – my eyes firmly on the door. This is no place for a respectable dwarf – and that should be enough to keep me away. If I’d told Father I was even thinking of taking work with the English forces in this war – I doubt I would be here, doubt he would have given me permission to come on this – this little adventure. But after all, our Delaware is now in English lands, now the Dutch have made agreement with them – I don’t think Father would want the French to win. Not really.

No. He just – wouldn’t want to see me involved. 

Only son and heir, and all the rest of it.

Still.

Payment is payment.

This town – after all my travelling – I could hardly believe how small it is – always spoken of as a big place, a den of vice and iniquity. Well, maybe it is, in a way, but – no work, no money to be made. Nothing here for me.

Nothing here for so many lads, I suppose – that’s why they come recruiting. I daresay I’m not the only one joining up not for love of King and Country – not my King, not my Country – but for a bit of a chance to see the world, a bit of a chance to make some money of my own. 

Not the only one not telling my Father either, I’m sure of that too.

He’ll be pleased enough when I come home, money in my pocket, able to wed, able to pay the bride-price myself, able to build-on space for – for my wife and I. That’d be something, Gimli, really something – to have a little space for the two of us, for – for children. 

Sounds odd though. My wife and I – children. 

Been talked of all my life, been planned by our parents, but – I never thought of it as something that was real, that meant anything until recently. And now – I don’t know. She’s nice enough, as a friend. But – I don’t know – I tried to speak to Father, and he just – looked at me – ‘love comes in time’, he said, ‘with the birth of children, with building a life together’ – but – I don’t know. I thought – the tales said – more than that. I tried to ask Mother – because – who else to ask? – and she – she said things were different in the Old Country, different when they were young, different when there – when there were more dwarves to choose from, when there was hope of finding the One you can really love. That I was being – old-fashioned, that things being as they are – I should be grateful they had found me a wife.

Grateful – that I am to marry someone who I don’t love, who doesn’t love me, who – who loves my cousin – and he her – but because of words spoken years ago – the bargain made, the deal done – we must all three pretend not to know it.

So this adventure. Time to make some gold.

Least we need if we are to make a go of this, is to start off free of debt. I’d hoped for better than working for the army, but – gold is gold, I suppose.

Beggars can’t be choosers, as Father would say.

Besides, I’ll be glad to be out of this town. Been quite an – eye-opener – you could say.

Some of the goings-on.

Well.

Fuck.

Indeed, I smile to myself, that would be the word.

Blatant.

Women on every corner, every tavern.

Bit different to home.

Suppose home is a nice, small-town, everyone knows everyone, if you aren’t at church or chapel, priest or grag will be round to ask why, kind of place. Most scandal we get is in the tulip season if someone has a bulb that comes up unexpected value – you can take the Dutch out of their homeland, but it seems you can’t take the tulip-love out of the Dutch.

Us dwarves – bit more reserved.

No scandal.

Not these days.

So this trading town, recruiting town, this town where Men live, and only Men, mostly English, mostly – godless – mostly away from families, from elders, from – all that I have known that keeps people – all sorts of people – restrained, and obedient, and – and morally upright – this town is a shock.

Small town as it is, there is enough trade – soldiers passing through – that there is, it seems to me, a tavern on every corner.

Mostly taverns.

I swear – the first night I was here – I saw more – female flesh – than ever in my life before – and that was without looking, without trying – and I don’t know whether to be shocked, or intrigued, or – well.

I don’t know.

Still.

Got myself a commission now, got myself somewhere to head, money to earn.

I look at the map, at the papers, and think I had best get the foodstuffs that I will need, best pack up my bag.

Tomorrow, he said, join the party heading north. 

Best write a message for my parents too.

Tell them that when I get home – when I get home I’ll have earned enough to set up properly. Enough to pay the bride-price, make an offer for the one they have their eye on for me.

I sigh.

Best enjoy this adventure then.

Time to settle down after it’s over. Be a husband and father. Be respectable.

Conform.

 

 

 

So.

All packed.

Letter written.

Time for a drink – just one – before bed.

I know, I know, I shouldn’t be in such a lewd place – but where else can I get a decent pint? Father wouldn’t expect me to set off tomorrow without a pint tonight.

Surely.

Father didn’t want me to come – agreed with Mother – said I should have stayed at home. Saved up. Not this – what did he call it – gallivanting off on adventures.

It’s not really an adventure. I just – I don’t want to simply marry the girl my parents picked when I was three weeks old, live in their house until they die and it’s ours – I don’t want that. Oh, I’ll settle, I’ll go back – it’s not like there’s much choice, not really. 

Dwarves marry dwarves. 

Just – I want to – to see some places – other places – first. And this war – it gives me the chance. So – I will make the most of this time – the only travelling I will ever do, like enough. If this is my only chance to see any of the world beyond the place I was born – I had best make the most of it. 

I saw the woods, the trails, the little settlements on the way here – the farmsteads, small enough, people friendly enough, glad to offer food and a bed for the night, a bit of chat in exchange for any news I could offer – not much, but sometimes even no news is good – word of trouble carries fast – and a little – mending of pots, pans, whatever metal-work they needed. But you don’t get rich that way – you don’t see much of the world that way either. So this town has been – different. And now north – into a war – that sounds like adventure right enough.

So.

I will go and have my drink.

If I don’t look – don’t do anything – it’s not wrong.

Not very wrong.

Besides, they won’t know.

 

 

 

But then, as I’m sat there, shit.

He walks into the bar, letting the door swing behind him.

Fuck.

Never thought I’d see him again.

Thought he was a wild one.

One to stay out in the woods – thought he’d gone native, feathers in his hair, all that shit – he looks like an Indian, but his English – better’n mine. Posher. And that gold chain – set with sapphires – if I’m not mistaken – and no dwarf is easy mistaken on such things.

Glad I’m in the corner – even his bright eyes can’t spot me here, hood tipped over my face, glass of beer in hand.

So I let myself look my fill – and – fuck me, but the memory was right. He’s a sweet thing. Tall, blond, carries himself like some prince – lean all over – shit. 

What the fuck am I thinking?

Looks a bit different here to that night he found me out in the woods. Don’t mind admitting, I was lost, left the trail for too long – hoping to bring down something – food or skins, or both – been a long walk here from Delaware, and – ah, I don’t know. Looking for adventure, looking to make money. But – shit – I don’t know – took a wrong turn, lost myself, found – him – instead.

He found me.

I’d not have found him if he didn’t want to be found.

Sure as fuck couldn’t find him next morning.

Sure as fuck was looking.

But that night – oh that night – fuck, I don’t know. He didn’t talk – much – just – where was I headed, had I eaten – but – watching him. The way he knew what to do, how to find food, how to light a fire – not that I can’t light a fire, but not – not that way, not so – pretty-like. And then – the way he sang, all the time, quiet, like he didn’t know he did it – the way he told me to sleep, that he’d watch the fire, watch the stars a while.

Stupid.

Stupid bloody dwarf, but – it was kind of peaceful. 

Watching him comb out his hair once he thought I was asleep.

Weird, I suppose.

Still.

Went off to sleep, content, him next me.

Woke – no sign of him – just – a pointer – Indian style – showing the way to town.

But now – now he walks in here, cool as anything. Place goes silent, just the sound of his boots on the floor. 

Boots?

Could’ve sworn he was in those – what d’they call ‘em? 

Moccasins.

Not now.

Throws a coin on the bar, knocks back his drink in one swallow, and same again.

I’m wondering whether I should up and speak.

“Another,” he says to the bar-keep, and walks over, “we have unfinished business,” he adds, and I see he’s known I was there all along.

I look at him blankly, wondering if I owe him something – money – for his help. I thought – I thought that was simply – the kindness of the road – as any would – but what do I know? I have only stories told by old dwarves to guide me. Bloody long time since any of them travelled. 

He smiles – and I feel – I don’t have the words. I don’t want him to ever not smile – I want him to be there, smiling at me, always. 

Fucks sake, Gimli.

“I mean no harm,” he says, “do not start so, you are no deer to be timid, and I – I do not come hunting with spear or arrow’s flight,” he holds out his hands to show he means it, and then, “simply – we broke bread together, we sat at a fire together, and if we did not comb, ‘twas that there were not enough present to make it seemly, it felt right to me – to you also – and so – I – I would speak with you again, perhaps even – you did not say aught of your plans beyond this place – might we journey once more together?”

He runs down to a stop, and looks hopefully at me – at least, I think he is hopeful – hard to read that face.

Bloody English with their manners, and protocol, and words that run on and on.

For a moment, I am tempted to sit and talk – but – it was him that ran off, I think, and besides – even as I am wondering, he shifts, his hair glints in the light, and I have to stop myself reaching to touch it. 

Shit.

I remember the thoughts I had about him – the – imaginings – and as he licks his lips, waiting for an answer, the sight sends a heat through me that – that I don’t know how to conceal, save by a roughness I don’t feel.

“I go North tomorrow,” I say gruffly, “with the reinforcements for Fort William. I thank you again for your help, but there is an end,” and I drain my glass, and turn away.

Don’t look back, Gimli. 

Walk to the door, walk to your rented room.

Go to bed.

And – fuck – if your hand creeps down to where it shouldn’t – if your thoughts are – wrong – if the images you cannot escape are not those that should make you hot and hard and – and – oh fuck yes – sticky – then you are at least alone here.

None need know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grag - I am borrowing this word from Terry Pratchett to indicate a spiritual leader of dwarves, rather like a priest, but with responsibility for keeping them "true dwarves" when living in close contact with other races.


	2. Chapter 2

Glad to be on the road again.

Not that it will be a road for long. 

Bloody Forest, bloody trails, bloody singing English soldiers.

Fuck.

Not hungover.

Just – out of sorts.

Miss – I don’t know. Miss knowing myself. Knowing my own mind.

Don’t think about him. Bloody Englishman-gone-native.

Just don’t.

Think about the way life is meant to be.

I don’t miss him. How can I? 

I have lived all the days and nights – well, almost all – of my life without him.

So.

Anyway.

Road out of Albany. Troops. Me. A few other – I don’t know – people with useful trades. If I’m the blacksmith, then – cobbler, baker, candlestick maker, I don’t bloody know.

Camp followers.

I’d like to say – wives of soldiers. Only – I’m not that bloody naive. These aren’t dwarves – these are Men. And Men – have different customs. Unlawful ways.

Still.

Some of the children are rather sweet.

A child is a child, I suppose. Whatever their parents are.

Anyway.

Into the Forest again now. Trees taller than – well, than any bloody tree ought to be. They don’t shut out the light, so much as – concentrate it. Make you really bloody conscious of how little there is, how little space, how you can’t see off the path – how anything – anyone – could be out there watching.

Indians.

Elves – elves like they had in the Old Country. No. There aren’t any here.

Trolls. No. It’s daylight.

Grey Folk.

Tiny evil creatures from Faerie.

Bears.

Wolves.

Fuck knows what.

The French.

Shit. I am being ridiculous, and I know it. Well, maybe not ridiculous about the bears, the wolves, the French – the Indians even – but I have a pistol, I am surrounded by soldiers, fucks sake. As for the rest – I didn’t know I believed the old tales so much. Don’t know why they are all back in my head.

Such things don’t exist.

Not in this New World.

So.

Just keep walking. No need to panic, no need to be afraid.

Stupid.

But.

Grass up to my knees, no way to run, nowhere to run to.

Heavy pack.

And still the sound of singing – the soldiers, the children – shit. It should be comforting – they clearly think it is – but – all I can think is how much – how fucking much – I don’t want to be here.

Suddenly that boring life doesn't seem so bad after all.

It’s what – three days – from Albany to this Fort William Henry. Shit. Another two days of this. Two more days of the singing, and the marching, and the endless, endless talk. The chatter of children I don’t mind – I don’t even mind when they come and ask silly, ignorant questions – how else will they learn – they mean no harm by it when they ask – will your beard reach the ground, do you go down holes and dig out gold, do you have a hammer, can you hide under rocks – but the gossip of the men – and women – only I hear more of the men – oh the endless speculation about food, and drink, and – and fucking. Do they have nothing else on their minds? Do they have no thought for anything beyond the mundane?

You are just jealous, Gimli. Jealous that they – have women, know what they want.

Jealous that the thought of the girl I will marry means nothing, and the thought of the – the bloody stupid Englishman means – everything.

Shit.

Shit.

This is not the way life is supposed to be.

Why have I left my own kind for this trek into some bloody great Forest, for this war?

And when we get there – Gimli, what the sodding hell have you got yourself into?

Dwarves should not get involved in the wars of Men. You know this.

But – in what land now can a dwarf not be involved in the wars and ways of Men?

Can’t answer that. 

Nowhere now. Everywhere are Men, they crawl over the Earth, so fast they live and spawn and die – and they do not hold to the old ways, they do not stay faithful to anything, they change, always they change and reach for more, and so – so the other races are pushed into smaller corners, always, until – until one day there will, I suppose, be no more dwarves, just as there are no more elves, no more trolls, no more of the Grey Folk, no more Frost Giants, nothing. For how can any others compete with them, with their vigour, their hunger for conquest, their lack of care for their own losses?

Fucks sake, Gimli.

A few hours heavy walking among them, and you are having them reach out and grasp the world.

Still don’t like this bloody Forest though.

Oppressive.

And then – then they come, the nightmare I have heard of, Indians, pelting out of the trees, screaming, and the knives they carry are sharp, and there is no time – no time for the slow, organised, firing by numbers that these soldiers know, no time for the women to run, the children to hide – and – shit, shit, shit, I don’t know what to do, I’m not a hero, not a warrior, I should be, but there was never time to learn all the skills a dwarf should have, and fighting doesn’t make money, but right now – shit, I wish I had, and – fuck, the soldiers are dying – and if they can’t fight their way out what hope have I – only some of the children seem to think I might be able to protect them, and – and what else can I do, but put my arms round them, and drag them as much into the bushes as I can – hoping this might – it just might – buy us some shelter.

Fucking stupid, Gimli. These are real, wild, Indians. They are not going to be deceived by you cowering under a bush. These are what all the stories are about – these are the people who will kill you with a blow, scalp you, cut out and eat your heart – so the rumours say – and right now – I don’t know – but it seems pretty fucking likely.

Fuck.

This wasn’t part of the plan. I don’t want to die like this.

And then – even as I am thinking probably the most stupid thought of all my whole stupid, pointless life – three figures appear, moving fast, Indians but different somehow – only – maybe they are different tribes or something – because – they are attacking the ones who set on us – and – I don’t fucking believe it – one is blond, the gold at his neck catching the light – it’s that bloody Englishman.

How can it be?

What the – shit – the way he fights – he has knives only, where the other two use guns as well – but – he is so fast – unnaturally fast. And he moves – he moves so light, so easy, almost as though it’s a dance. 

And then – it’s over. The others are back into the wood they came from – those who are still alive – the Englishman wiping his knives on the ground, and the other two – are talking to the children – the three still alive, the three still with me.

I try not to look at the bodies – some of them pathetically small – instead, I look about, and see that one or two of the soldiers are still alive. 

Just.

Holy Mahal, I think, but I wish I knew what to do for them, wish I knew something that would help. As it is, I go from one to another – there are half a dozen – and try, desperately, to – to tie up wounds, to offer water, to – pray. If that is all that there is to do, then that is what I shall try.

It may make them feel better.

It is not likely to make things worse.

The Englishman comes over to me, as I am sat by the worst hurt, 

“What are you doing, wasting water on him?” he says, and I look up, shocked, to see a – a blankness on his pretty face, “he will die. There is nothing you can do – all your fussing simply slows his passing but does not ease it.”

I swallow, horrified that he can be so – callous.

Before I find words, he turns to the soldier, and speaks,

“Rest now,” he says, and it sounds – kind, “losto, misto duven, losto maethor.” 

Something like that.

He kneels beside him, and puts a hand on his forehead, and, fuck me, he just keeps repeating it – over and over – quietly, almost – chanting.

The lad – he is only a lad, he is one of the new recruits, never used a weapon in anger, doesn't know what he is doing or why he is here – he smiles, and his eyes shut – he looks – peaceful – he even – makes a little, soft sound, and – and after a few moments I realise he is gone.

“There,” he says, “sometimes that is all that can be done. Now, let me see the others.”

Fuck.

Was that – magic?

Or what?

He moves from one to another, and before long – there is another dead, three standing, looking dazed but ready to make the best of it and one – one also standing, but somehow – not looking as though he knows that which he sees.

The English-witch turns to his friends, and there is a discussion in – some bloody language or other. Their damn Indian jabber, I suppose. He turns back to me, to the soldiers who are well enough,

“Where now will you go? My friends are for heading back to Albany. Safety. For the children at least I think that is the best course – and for your wounded companion – there is little to be gained by leading him to the Fort. I have done what I can, but I am not skilled, and there is much damage here – the best I can hope to have achieved is to leave him aware of his hurts but not suffering – able to move and reach better medicine – able to live like this for many years if needs must. You however – what would you do? Would you go back to Albany, perhaps to set out again, perhaps to be redeployed – or would you journey on? I know the paths you need – I can take you swift and silent that you will not be attacked again – but I cannot tell you what your fates will be in either case. Decide now – each of you – there is no need for you to stay together if that is not your will.”

The recruits look at one another, doubtful, but while they are thinking, I shrug,

“Nothing has changed for me,” I say, “if I don’t go to the Fort I don’t earn my gold – if I don’t earn my gold I can’t marry. North for me.”

For an instant, the witch seems – still. His eyes drop to the ground, and then he looks up at me, and – and why am I noticing this? 

“Then I will take you north,” he says quietly, and – and I find I can’t look away from his eyes – eyes so blue – so – deep. Eyes to drown in, I think, eyes to lose your soul in.

In the end, all of the recruits elect to come with us – I suppose if they don’t it could be seen as desertion.

The children seem – unmoved – by the whole experience. Odd creatures, children of Men. They go happily enough with the Indians, leading the bewitched soldier kindly – and I wonder what will become of him – whether the healers will be able to help him, the priests able to release his soul from wherever the witch has chained it.

Witch gestures to us to follow – and we do.

Fuck knows where he is taking us – he doesn’t use the tracks, he goes off into the wilds. Can only hope he knows what he is doing and is honest, by his lights, in his wish to help us.

He keeps us moving on, on beyond the time we would normally stop for food, for drink, for sleep – he doesn't slow, he seems not to tire. When the recruits begin to mutter among themselves – not that I notice, I am too fucking knackered, just concentrating on one foot then the next – he turns, and,

“No. We do not stop. My heart tells me that if we do, your enemies will catch our scent. We are neither pursued nor pursuer – and I would fain keep us so. There will be time for your rest later – I know you are not steadfast of purpose as my kin – I know you may not endure as a dwarf will,” his glance rakes over me, and I – I colour under my beard as I know I am not the iron-strong dwarf I would like to be, “but we must make haste. I would not have more blood spilled this night – and so we sleep not.”

Recruits drop their eyes, shamefaced, and – on we go.

When he finally lets us rest, he says he will keep watch – we eat a little – a very little – of the food we have – and that is little enough – and then we sleep.

Not for long. He has us up and moving again soon – too soon.

As evening is falling we come into sight of the Fort – he has taken us a shorter route, made us move so much faster – let us have so little rest – that we are almost there. For a moment, there is a feeling of relief, of safety ahead – and then – we see the besieging French.

Fuck.

He looks at our faces, reading our thoughts,

“I do not think to turn back would be wise,” he says, “you have no choice now but to go on. It is doubtful that the French would let you enter the Fort – although – I suppose they may have a certain honour to them – they may let you if you hand over your weapons and become merely more useless mouths to feed. Or they may simply take you captive, send you back down the lines to – wherever they keep their prisoners. I would not recommend that – they are not known for unkindness, but – dungeons do not suit either Men or dwarves – in my experience.”

He pauses, and looks at us – at me,

“Besides, you would not get your gold – and so no wedding for you, master dwarf.”

Again I colour, and the recruits – glad for some light thought, I daresay – begin to laugh and joke – I don’t listen.

I am looking at his eyes, and – and trying to read what I see there.

But he turns away, and speaks again,

“We will go round their camp – cross the river at nightfall – we can make a safe landing I think. The moon will not be out tonight, and the eyes of Men are oft deceived by stars.”

What?

What is he implying – is he not Man?

Fucks sake, Gimli, you are being ridiculous. What else could he be? He is not dwarf – and all the other races are dead. You know this.

At least – I thought I did.

Never trust an elf, they say – and quick enough my parents always were to remind me I would never need to – they are dead and gone – dead or left – just as all the trolls are destroyed, all the Grey Folk scared away, all the Frost Giants gone back into the tales where they should always have been.

But.

Is that why – why he sings – why he does not sleep – why he dances with knives?

Fucks sake Gimli.

Bloody idiot. He is just a – a man. Nothing more.

But all the way round, as he leads us past the camp, as he seems to know how to move silently – as he seems to see and hear better than any should be able – I keep wondering – is it simply the time he has lived among Indians – for clearly he has – or is it – something more?

I don’t know.

I don’t know if I am being daft.

We reach the place he thinks we can cross, when it is dark enough, and we rest up. The recruits are now busy talking among themselves – trying to think of how they will account for what happened – how they will be greeted – what the chances are of them getting out of here again.

The witch – the possible elf – the – whatever he is, lies at peace – or so it seems – next to me gazing at the pattern of leaves and shade and light in front of him. After a long while, he speaks,

“Is she – very lovely? Do you – care for her very much?” he asks, in a low voice, still looking away from me, and for a moment I have no idea who he speaks of, “your – the lady you plan to marry,” he says, still not looking at me, “is she – fair? Kind? Does she – love you also?”

I shrug,

“She is – pleasant,” I say, and then, “her parents and mine have wanted the match for as long as I can remember. Neither of us cares overmuch for another – at least – I do not. She is – fond of my cousin, I think, but – he has little money, and little else to recommend him. Her parents would rather she married me, and so – I think that is what will happen. That is generally how these things work, isn’t it?”

His face does not change – still calm, still – pretty – and fucks sake Gimli, what is this thought? – but he speaks again, his hand that I can see clenched in upon itself,

“Among my people – no. We marry only for love – true love – but – among Men – yes, I believe it sometimes is. I know nothing of dwarves. Certainly my Father would have bade me agree with you, that they know nothing of honour, of love, of – of anything that is worth knowing. I – I had hoped – that perhaps he was wrong. It seems not.”

Again, I shrug,

“It would not be very honourable of me to leave her high and dry – I don’t know – maybe she would rather not marry me – but then what would I do? I – “ and it is the first time I have fully admitted this to any, even to myself, “I don’t love her – but she is nice enough – and – I don’t want to spend a life alone, longing for – for someone who probably doesn't exist. Or if she does – she lives in a dwarven colony in a foreign land. Someone I will never meet.”

He is silent for a while then, 

“Your love – your love would be female then?” 

And I rear away in astonishment at such a – forbidden question.

“How not?” I ask, and once more I flush under my beard as I remember those heated thoughts of – of him – of – things I cannot name – things that are wrong, wicked, “marriage is the union of one male and one female – so it is written, so it is, so it has ever been, so it will ever be.”

He half-smiles,

“Oh, it was not always so among your people – just as it is not among mine.”

I am silent, not understanding – not wanting to understand what he means. He sighs, and pushes a hand through his hair – pretty hair, so pretty, and I – I wonder what it would feel like to touch – then he stands, his hand brushing lightly over my arm,

“In one thing you are right,” he says, “a life alone, a life longing for – for one you may never meet – is weary indeed.”

He walks away, over to – I don’t know – look at the stars, plan our river-crossing – encourage the recruits – dance and shout and sing to the French for all I can tell – for I – I am left reeling at the desolation I heard in his voice, reeling at my own desire to – to touch and hold, and stroke and – and comfort him, reeling above all at – at the line of fire it seems he has lit down my arm simply by trailing a finger over me.

Fucks sake, Gimli.

This is no time for such – meanderings.

 

 

 

As he said, under cover of darkness we cross the river. I don’t know where he got the boat – but – I have a suspicion that someone died under his knife for this. 

And since the someone was French no doubt I should be pleased, but – his coldness frightens me.

It is not natural.

We land, and even though the guns are firing, the uniforms of the recruits are enough to grant us entry, though we are taken before the colonel at once. A good man, perhaps, in normal days, he is now harassed, and weary, and impatient.

The recruits stammer out the tale of ambush, of rescue, of guidance here, and he nods, dismissing them to their fate.

He looks at me, 

“So,” he says, “you are the engineer I was promised. As you can see, you are not enough – I would need a company now – and you are too late anyway it seems to me. I need troops, reinforcements – not one lone dwarf. No, if you wish to earn your gold – as dwarves always do – then you had best hope we are relieved soon, and then your task will begin, here or elsewhere.”

Stupidly, I begin to argue, and I don’t know why I am so foolhardy, but – perhaps it is tiredness, confusion, the feeling that I have kept my side of the bargain, and am willing to do more – that I could be dead, that I am risking all for – for such disdain.

“Peace, master dwarf,” the colonel is not a patient man, “think yourself lucky that I am not asking questions – questions such as why the only column to be attacked is the only one with a dwarf among it, and how you survived when others – good fighting men – did not.”

I growl in anger, and I would say more – but – in time I remember my father’s advice. Men will always blame dwarves, he said. Be prepared to be the scapegoat – for Men are foolish, weak, and easily led. I drop my eyes, pent up frustration within me, years of trading telling me that his words are right, that there is nothing to be done – that if Men change the rules, dwarves must simply change their own play to win this game.

It seems my companion has never been given such good advice.

“Have you heard nothing your men told you?” he raises his voice, he moves forward, his hand raised in anger, “They were set upon by the Huron allies of the French – those who survive do so because I and my companions saw them and took pity on their plight – the dwarf is innocent, has done nothing more than fulfil his side of a bargain when he might easily have fled to safety – you owe him his promised gold – or a share of it – and as for reinforcements – none know you are besieged. If you sent out messengers they have not arrived – no-one is coming to aid you. They are more like to be hoping you will be a safe haven for the troops from other forts as they fall.”

I think he would go on, in his madness, and get us both shot for treason, but fortunately the colonel’s secretary breaks in,

“Sir, if this is true, we should perhaps consider talks with the enemy – if we die, they will have possession of the Fort, and we will have gained nothing – better to see if some conclusion can be reached that leaves us able to fight another day. This man may well be honest – let us speak to those he brought once more.”

The colonel looks at him, and gives a bark of laughter,

“This man may be honest, you say – what man? I see no Man before me. I see a gold-grubbing dwarf, and a lying, deceitful elf. Even if the men he led here in such disarray back his story – it is likely that they are deceived by his witchcraft, that he may have been in league with those who attacked them – that those he says were led back to Albany burn even now over the fires of the tribes. Never trust an elf to do more than is to his benefit.” He looks us over once more, “take the dwarf where he may be of use – see that the elf is kept under lock and key – cold iron should hold him as well as any other. I will not risk us all murdered or the gates opened by his elegant hands.”

I watch them take him away.

An elf.

An elf – I owe my life to an elf.

Twice over – at the least.

Fuck.

Not that my life seems worth a lot, right now, I think as I hear the guns continue their pounding.

But – shit.

An elf.

And I did not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sindarin:  
> Losto, misto duven, losto maethor - sleep, sail west, sleep warrior
> 
>  
> 
> .


	3. Chapter 3

What am I doing here, he asks as I greet him, as I pass him a flask of spirits through the bars. Spirits. 

Father would be shocked.

I am with an elf, drinking hard liquor. 

Fuck.

Well, at least I am not drinking, I suppose. Not fucking, either, a part of my brain points out, and another part, another unruly part adds – more’s the pity.

Stop it, Gimli. Don’t think about – about what is forbidden, forbidden two, three times over.

He is male, he is no dwarf, he is an elf.

He is also imprisoned, suspected of – treason, I suppose it would be called. And somehow the cell, the darkness, the noise overhead, the new knowledge of who and what he is, the suspicion of his motives – none of it diminishes him, he is still – beautiful.

The most beautiful thing – person – I have ever seen.

But I have been silent too long.

What am I doing here, he asks again, and I don’t know whether that is mistrust, or confusion, or – or hope – in his voice, as he looks at me, and away, and flexes his fingers as though it is unnatural to him to be unable to – to toy with a knife, I suppose, to do something, not to sit still, and wait upon the decisions of another.

Makes me wonder about his life, that he seems to have no humility, no acceptance of forces beyond his control.

What am I doing here?

Good fucking question.

What the fuck – what the sweet fucking Mahal in a snowstorm am I doing here? What am I doing in a Fort, hunkered down beside the bars of a cell, talking to – to this – whatever his name is.

Listening to the guns overhead, the French besieging force firing – not perhaps with much aim, but with force enough to ensure damage is done – and constant enough that – this Fort has not long to stand. And then – then my adventure, my quest for gold, for – excitement – for the something missing from my life that I can’t name – will be over. Either in a welter of blood, or in chains, waiting until the war is over, or until my poor parents can raise some kind of ransom for me. And I know the only ransom dwarves are ever asked for is gold or labour – so – the best I can hope for is that my foolishness has condemned my parents and myself to years of servitude.

What am I doing here?

Come to that, what is he doing here?

He is, unless the colonel is very much mistaken, an elf. But I did not hear him deny it.

Oh, for – of course he is an elf.

How did I not see it?

Pointy ears.

Pretty hair.

Tall.

Smooth.

He’s an elf.

Prances about the sodding woods like – like he was born to it.

Suppose he was.

Not here though, not these woods.

No elves here.

“Me?” I say, and I shrug, then, not wanting to think about why I am here, here by this cell, I choose to answer the more general question, “just trying to turn an honest coin, make a living. Born down in Delaware – come up here looking for work.”

He nods, then, 

“No work there?” and he has to raise his voice, to pretend we are carrying on an innocent ordinary conversation.

“Not what I want,” I say, and I sigh, “just bloody tinkering. Nothing – exciting. Nothing that pays well. Thought – what I’d like – get out – where no-one has been before – there must be – I don’t know – but – not coal. More – valuable things.”

Now the poncey fucker is laughing,

“Gold?” he says, “so it’s true – that is all dwarves care for?”

I scowl.

“Didn’t say that,” and I look at him, with his pretty hair, and I remember his bow, and his knives, and, oh fuck me but he looks like every elf-picture I ever saw, everything I was warned against, how did I not see it before? And he’s laughing at me, “not just gold. Crystals, metals, who knows? It’s a new land. We don’t even know what there might be,” and for a moment, I forget who I’m talking to, I forget where we are, forget the shelling, the shouting, the arguments, forget he laughs and won’t understand, forget that we could be dead by morning, and I let myself really speak, let myself pour out words in a flood of explanation, of passion, of the dream inside of me, the dream of my people, the dream that carries us and sustains us.

“Out there – somewhere,” I begin, “out there in the West – there’s space, there’s a place for anyone – any people strong enough to carve it. Out there – who knows what there could be – all for the taking. No laws, no bloody English, no Men even. Somewhere – there’s riches. Buried, but all it needs is finding. Men won’t find it, Men can’t find it – but dwarves can – all it needs is someone to get out there and look – go prospecting – could be gold, could be – I don’t know – what do they call it – black-gold – salt even – when did Europe have enough salt? They used to pay soldiers in salt – did you know that – “ I break off, realising the stupidity – of course he did, he’s a bloody elf, probably lived through those years – “anyway, point is, we don’t know what’s out there – could be metals we haven’t even seen yet. Imagine – stronger than iron, incorruptible in air – light too maybe – we don’t know – that’s what we were promised. When we came – when the king of Sweden sent us – we were promised the chance to go out, to explore – they said there’d be armed escort – that’s what sold us on it. My parents, their families – all of them – they formed a Company, came out here, just to follow the dream.”

I stop, and look down at the floor. I don’t want to recite the rest again, the sad tale of errors, of promises broken, lies told, of – of a Company sold out by its director.

“Black-gold?” he asks, and I wonder how much of it he understood.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, because – no need to tell an elf and besides – how to explain the properties of the stuff – burns, hotter and stronger than anything else – how to explain the things it can power, or so them as know tell me. Not my expertise, but if Balin says a thing, I believe him. 

He nods, half-accepting my lie, and then, 

“Sweden? What have you to do with Sweden?”

I prod the floor, discomforted by the reminder that this land – this melting pot – has taken even that from me since the Dutch and then the English – always the bloody English – came and took sovereignty of our land – and I have no longer the accent of the home of my fathers. That now I sound like – like a dwarf – any dwarf. I shrug, because – because he is an elf, and what matters any of it to him?

“Never you mind,” I say, and then, wondering at myself, “you? I – I didn’t know you were an elf – didn’t know elves still walked this earth. Thought you were some – old world story – trolls, elves, frost-giants.”

He huffs, and looks away, then,

“We were. Once. Old world, but never just a tale, a dream to be forgot at waking – though ever that is the way mortals speak of us – and ever – ever we are wiser if we let them believe us to be so,” he sighs, and his hand touches his hair again – pretty hair – and again for an instant I wonder how it feels, “but I – I was never wise, and rarely did I obey the laws and commands of my revered father. Ah,” he sighs, “my father – long it is since I beheld him, since I rested in his Halls – and in truth, I know not now where his Halls are; at least, I know not where Men believe them to be. I know not whether he does still at times leave them and come forth to see the world, or whether the Gates are closed to all but the rare talented mortal whom my father takes in the hope of rousing my beloved mother from her long sleep with their strange music.”

He looks so sad, and for an instant as he closes his eyes in – in pain, can elves feel pain of the heart as we do? – he seems like a child to me. And I know that were he to stand, the illusion would be broken, his height is such, but sitting, his smooth face perfect as a statue named Sorrow, I want to reach out, to hold him – to offer some sweet thing to cheer him, as one does a child – something good to eat, or a promise of delight.

“What do you here?” I ask again, instead, having nothing to offer, “or rather, where would you go, were we not trapped by these guns – these walls?”

He moves in a way that I think in any mortal would be a graceless jerk – but instead – is fluid yet controlled, and exquisitely beautiful.

“Here? I cast my strength upon the side of the peoples who were kind to me when I was lost, sheltered me when I was alone, took me in to their tribe and their hearts, and showed me those wonders of their world which I could not have learnt in any other way. It is, truly, not the reason I sailed to these lands, but yet – it is perhaps enough. I cannot – that is, I see not how it could be possible for me to find a way back to the lands of my birth, so rapid is the change imposed by mortals, so fast will they twitch this world into a new age, a new design. Near twice one hundred years it is since I came across that Sea – and no elf before me dared the voyage – indeed it seems no elf since has chosen my path – and in that time the changes in customs, words, and laws of Men are great.”

What?

Bloody fool elf, I think, answer the sodding question. And stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself. 

“Where now would I go? Ah, master dwarf, that is the heart of it – where would I go? Were I free – were I not pledged to fight this battle – this war – where would I wander?” and a far-off look comes into those eyes, a day-dreaming look, a little girl listening to fairy-tales look – it’s the hair, I can’t help it, fighter though he is, when he sits like this, hands clasped round knees, head leant back, hair falling free, eyes seeking – I don’t know – stars perhaps – some distant vision – he looks like nothing so much as a little girl dreaming by the fire. And then he speaks his dreams, and the illusion dies, and he is a strange creature that makes no sense to me once more, “I would go West, always West – ever do we long for that we can no more find – for the Sea that in sailing we might go home – home to where elves belong – the Sea I hoped to cross when I set forth from rain-strewn Plymouth. The Sea that is now, I think, lost, and hidden from those of us who lingered here too long. And were I to find it – what good would it do me – were I to cross it – still I would be heartsore and aching for those I left behind me. There is, it seems, no peace to be had in this world for elves – and I fear, I fear that those of us who heeded not the call – the final call, they told us, yet in truth all that they meant was the final chance to respond, for the call fades not as the centuries rush by – those of us who loved still our woods, our forests and hills, our streams and rivers – those of us who stayed to watch our trees, and remained fascinated by the march of mortals – we must now I fear stay, trapped, and see how their fates play out. Grieve for the cutting of trees, the destruction of all that was green and fair – and grieve for the passing of song, the coming of the night of mortal triumph when all this world is mapped and the empty spaces wherein elves dwell are no more.”

Fuck.

What?

“West?” I say, “Perhaps you and I should make common cause – your bow to feed us as we journey, my knowledge to pay our way – your dream and mine perhaps – perhaps at the end.”

I don’t really mean it. How can I?

Me – journey with an elf?

But for an instant – before he hears my laugh, sees the jest – his face – the longing on it – the blaze of hope – is such that, just for that instant, even I wonder.

 

 

I wonder – what would it be to be out in the wilds with him – just him. To watch him move, and know there was none to call my – my desire – wrong? What would it be to listen to him sing – and not be forced to pretend annoyance?

To sleep knowing he watched over me, and perhaps to watch him when he rests.

To be together away from the eyes of Men – and, I think now, away from the eyes of dwarves, and our strict adherence to custom.

I am silent too long, and too dour-faced, I suppose, comparing my thoughts with reality, and he – he ever feels the need to chatter on,

“As it is,” he begins, “we are here, and I suppose we will have to fight. Though these militia seem keen enough to leave, to abandon, and I am sure this war is theirs more than ours. For all the years I lived in their Old Country, I am not English, and I know too well their laws do not protect me – how is it for you? No, you said Sweden’s king has first claim to your loyalty – yet you were here to help these soldiers, even as I could not but help you – there must be something that ties you?”

I look at him, and wonder if he is truly as naive as he seems,

“Money,” I say, “it is as I said – simply money, elf, and – my family – my people live on English lands – we cannot choose a side, we needs must play the hand we are dealt,” I scratch, and think, adding, “Not but what we might have chosen this side, I don’t say otherwise. Only – folk like us – keep your head down, don’t interfere, just try and make some money, keep safe, that's all.”

He nods, but I don’t think he understands. Said he was a prince, didn’t he – don’t suppose he knows what powerlessness is, the grinding pressure of just keeping your nose clean, not making trouble – and all the time dreaming of a way to get the land you were promised.

 

Still. I have nothing else to do, nowhere else I am needed – there is no work for me, and I – I feel a compulsion to keep a watch on the elf.

He seems – I don’t know – but as the time passes, and nothing changes, as the fighting continues but we – we are helpless – and I daresay he is no more used to this feeling than to the darkness, the underground-ness of this cell – as time passes, he becomes – quieter.

Dreamy almost.

He speaks of his father again, of his mother, left behind, and I begin to understand just how long it is since he saw or spoke with them, how long he has been alone. He speaks of the people he sailed with – now dead, their colony failed – of the people, the Indians, no, Tuscarora, who took him in, who welcomed him, and of how they were suspicious at first, thought it witchcraft when he did not age. The hurt in his voice as he tells me – I feel guilt that “witch” was my first thought – but I don’t tell him.

I don’t know why.

I don’t really know why I care – or why he cares – but – something in me – something in him – fuck.

Talking, sitting in semi-darkness, not quite touching, it feels – right.

Almost as though we have done this before.

As though – as though this is how we are meant to be.

I want to ask if he has known another dwarf – ever – because – a part of me is wondering – are the old tales of Durin, and others, of reincarnation – could they be true – could it be that this is a second chance for us – only – it sounds daft.

I want to ask who gave him that chain, who made it for him. But – that sounds as though – it sounds – too much.

So I don’t.

I don’t believe in any of that.

No-one does these days.

Even the grags – mostly – accept it is just a way to tell the tale.

But – it’s good to sit here, talking. 

Listening to him.

He sings, sometimes, dropping into his own tongue, other tongues – I don’t bloody know – but – it feels – good.

Like home.

I don’t keep track of time.

No point.

No need.

I am here.

Elf is here.

Life is good.


	4. Chapter 4

Forming up again, always bloody columns with the English, but – I manage to keep near the elf – he still looks – I don’t know – oh, don’t lie to yourself, Gimli, he still looks bloody perfect, nothing wrong at all – but – if we are to be marched off somewhere – I am staying near him. I will know where they take him.

Fuck but I don’t like this. 

“Terms of surrender have been agreed,” that was the announcement, “we leave with honour, we keep our colours.”

Whatever the fuck that means.

Far as I can tell, it means they carry their bloody flag out with them even though they surrender the Fort, and all that is in it.

But – the French have promised they won’t attack, agreed that there is no other choice, that they have fought until none could expect them to fight further – and so – off they go.

Off they go.

Off we bloody go too. I doubt the French are likely to want to reemploy me – so I am keeping my head down, staying with this man’s army. 

Besides, elf is still a prisoner, still under suspicion. And – somehow – I don’t want to leave him.

Fucks sake, Gimli. As if he cares. As if he isn’t capable of looking after himself – he’s been alive many hundred times longer than you, by the sound of it, and he’s done alright so far – why do you think you need keep a watch over him?

I don’t know.

But I do.

I don’t trust these English – somehow – I – oh, be honest – I don’t want to leave the elf behind.

So, as the column leaves the Fort, straggling along, I stay at his side. He is still in chains, still weaponless, blinking in the sunlight. And again – he looks so – young. Vulnerable.

Pretty.

Fucks sake, Gimli.

No-one seems to notice, or care, that I have – found – his knives, that I carry them for him, that I stay near, that I take advantage of the guard turning away to see that his woman is safe in the long tail of camp-followers, to – run my fingers over the lock, notice how it is formed, and – think to myself – bloody fool English. Give me a few moments alone, unobserved, and that would be undone with – with a hairpin. 

I look at the elf, and – yes – hair like that – he has some kind of clasp in it.

Good.

But if they are fools about that – in what else are they so easily deceived?

Bloody English and their honour. No, their belief that others are honourable. Their faith in – in the word of Men – and why the holy fucking Mahal they think mere words will bind, I do not know. 

There were no oaths spoken, no higher powers invoked to watch over, to see fair dealings – and the Men who swore the oath are not the ones I am afraid of.

Yes.

I am afraid.

I would not admit it aloud – although the bloody elf can probably smell it on me – but I, Gimli Glöinsson am afraid.

I am afraid as we pass the watching lines of soldiers, of canon that until so recently were trained on us, as we turn our backs, and walk – walk back into the woods.

The woods the elf lead us out of only days ago.

Fuck.

Don’t like woods.

Don’t like these woods.

Most of all, don’t believe those Men – Frenchmen – who swore our safety know or care what their Indian allies are up to.

Not Indian. Huron. Elf got quite cross about that.

Apparently it matters.

Well. If I thought getting the damn words right would keep me safe – I’d get them bloody well right.

But I don’t.

And – and again I wish I was more of a fighter, more of a warrior. But there were always things more needed to learn. Do have my axe, but – I know I am no Dwalin. 

Elf is uneasy also. 

Notice him looking about, and I notice how he keeps flexing his fingers, feeling the lack of weapons perhaps, trying to keep himself ready, alert, trying to find the opportune moment. I wish I had a way to speak to him, a language no other could understand – a way to tell him I have his knives, to say that I could undo that lock, given a hair-clasp, and a distraction. “Denk je nederlands spreken?” I try, and get nothing but beautiful elven blankness, so – and Durin and my ancestors forgive me, “khuzdul?”

More beautiful blankness.

Mahal, surely You must have some slight fondness for elves? Help me.

“Talar du svenska?” I try, wondering why he would, and the guard looks at me as though – as though I am mad, but what care I for the looks of any Man?

Elf frowns, bites his lip with suppressed laughter, and then makes a little movement of his head – and I think it is a yes – then he speaks, slowly, reaching back in his mind, I think,

“Yeg skil thadh – thadh ere icci langt sidhan vicingar comu adh occar strondum – yeg taladhi therra tungu, for ther voru hugraccir crigmenn.”

So he can understand me, and – and I can just about make sense of that, though why he is using – what is it, some kind of Norwegian? Vikings? Bloody weird elves. As for the bit about the elk – best ignored. Who knows why elves do anything – but I try some more,

“Jag har dinar kivar. Jag behöver din hårnål att släppa loss dig.”

He grins, and for a moment, I don’t see an elf, wild and strange, I don’t see a beautiful enigma that leaves me – lost and wondering – I see someone I could be friends with, a companion in mischief, in plans, in work and fun.

Is this how it’s meant to feel, I wonder? Is this what I never felt for Brorild, for any girl, is this – is this – what it means to fall for someone?

Then he stumbles, and trips – an elf, tripping over his own feet? – and for a moment, I don’t react, I don’t understand, but then his head is close to me, and I – I can reach out and take the clasp. It slides easily into my hand, but I – I can only think that I touched his hair.

Fleetingly.

Hardly at all really.

But – it was soft, and he – he didn’t mind.

I put the clasp in my pocket, and I wait.

We continue on our way and then – then, the colonel, decides to turn. He rides down the column, looking over us all, and then turns once more, and passes back along. I suppose he is trying to build morale, pausing to speak to individual soldiers, praise their courage, remember little details about them. 

Sign of a good leader, so I was always told – but – right now, I think I’d rather he was concentrating on keeping the column ready in case of attack.

I have nothing to say to him, I keep my eyes on the ground, keep walking.

Not so the elf.

Oh daft sodding elf.

He calls out, as the Man rides by, and asks what he intends, how he can be so foolish to believe the word of enemies – and – I don’t know what else. 

Apparently the colonel and he share a tongue – a tongue that I suppose the colonel is confident his soldiers do not speak.

“Hoc periculosum est; insidiis factis, nos comprehendemur. Mihi de fide noli loqui; nihil fidei intellegunt,” he spits the words out, and I – I half recognise some – from walking past churches. How many languages does he speak, I wonder, and how many tribes of Men has he seen come and go? 

Can see heated discussion. Don’t know what elf is saying, but colonel isn’t listening.

Fuck.

This is a bad idea, I want to say, this Man has power over you; elf, have you no sense?

Really, really don’t like this.

“Milites tui, omnes ad unum, morientur,” and then, as the colonel shrugs, “Natha daged dhaer!” the elf shouts – and I have never heard him shout, but the way his voice cracks – the pain in it – and the gesture that goes with it is – clear enough. The colonel shakes his head again, rides forward, his face angry and the elf – I daresay he thinks he is walking fast and purposefully.

The elf tosses his head and flounces at my side.

His lips are pressed together, his face paler than is usual. He looks about him, as though – as though trying to impress every face on his memory. 

“Calm down,” I say, “the colonel has no choice. English gentleman, remember. Has to be honourable, trust the other gentleman’s sworn word. Can’t let the troops see anything but confidence.”

He swears, at least, I assume he swears, and we continue through these stifling, oppressive woods.

At last the colonel calls a halt, a water break, and for all I can see the elf is impatient, frustrated, I am glad of it.

Short legs, remember.

Short legs and a heavy load. 

I can endure, of course I can, but – I don’t like it. This weather – this forest – it’s not what dwarves were made for.

I sit, and drink – and know I am drinking too much – but – if the elf is right – and I trust his knowledge – the chances of being alive later to drink this water are small. So I may as well enjoy it now.

Even as his guard relaxes, he stands still, alert, watching, pointy ears twitching as he listens for – for something that is not our own gallant Men.

But I think even his ears cannot make out much beyond their talk, and movements, and horses, and – and noise.

He crouches beside me, suddenly, and – takes my hand in his bound ones.

“Gimli,” he says, “I think we have not much time. You – please trust me. Whatever happens – trust me. I would not be parted from you – I – this is not how I would have this be – but I fear there is not the time for slow courting,” and – sweet Mahal fuck the Virgin – he leans forward and kisses my lips. It is quick, and darting, and – and I hope to heaven and the Maker’s Forge that none saw it – bloody elf – what is he playing at, I wonder, with the part of me I know. But another part, a hidden part, a part I have been ignoring and hiding from, and – and trying to silence – is hot and cold – and – alive at last. Before I can speak – and I don’t know what I would say, he continues, “I will take you with me – if I can – if not – stay alive. Whatever happens, whatever it takes – lie, cheat, anything, submit – stay alive – I will find you,” he looks at me again, “let them take you captive, help them if you must. It hurts you not. This is not our fight. We will go West – I will find you. However long it takes me, I will find you.”

Before I can even begin to try and answer that – he is up, and looking about him again – and – even as the colonel signals for all to fall in, and this weary march to begin again – there are cries of alarm, and Men falling – and I know – without doubt – he was right.

Ambush.

Again.

But this time – I don’t think there will be a pretty elf coming out of the woods to save me.

This time – the pretty elf will have his work cut out to save himself.

His guard is turned away still, I don’t know what happens to him – all I know is that I have the hair clasp out, held between my fingers as I work it frantically, as I free my pretty elf’s hands – my elf – what the fuck am I thinking? – I don’t know, but – I free him, and then I pass him his knives, even as he is reaching across where I am bent forward and he uses his manacles to – I don’t see it – but I think that whatever he did was a particularly nasty way to die.

I don’t care though, since it was my head he saved.

And then – then he is busy.

I wait, head down, until a soldier near me falls – and then I take his musket. Not a dwarf born that can’t use such – not a dwarf born that may carry one. Not in these lands, not in any land of Men.

Even so, I lose track of what the elf is doing. Every time I catch sight of him, he is – dancing – almost – shooting, and how the fuck he can aim into those trees I don’t know – how he can see – but I don’t care – and I concentrate on loading and firing my ill-gotten musket as its rightful owner had not the chance to do. 

Load, aim – aim at nothing – fire.

Load, aim – still aiming blind – fire.

But I can see there is no chance of winning this. 

Around me Men are falling, and – I can’t but remember the tales – it occurs to me that those with holes in their chests – those no longer breathing – may be the lucky ones.

The colonel is looking around him in horror, even as he is trying to order his men to stand and fight, he must realise there is no hope. He wheels his horse about, and I wonder what he is thinking, but no time to discover it as a well-aimed volley brings it down.

Poor bloody creature, I think, and it isn’t the only one. 

Not stupid, Indians – Hurons – whatever the fuck they are – they know if the horses are dead, no-one can get away fast enough. 

Then I realise – one person could.

The elf.

I look for him again, and I understand his words – he knew this was coming. I can’t see him now.

I keep looking, but – fuck.

There is a hole in my leg.

Bastard bloody Indians – fuck their own name – bastards – that hurts.

Not as much as you’d think.

Shock I suppose – is that what they call it – shock and battlefield terror – and – oh fuck.

Should have stayed at home.

Should have stayed and married, like father wanted.

Always trying to be clever, Gimli, that's your trouble.

Just sitting now. 

Watching as the rest of the Indians – alright, Hurons – come out of the trees. Start working their way along those who are left.

And those who are dead.

Fuck.

Elf at my side again.

“Gimli, now, come on,” he says, and then sees the wound, the blood, and before I can even start to speak, he has tied something round it – don’t know – not looking – what it is. Where he got it. And he is pulling me upright, but – I’m heavy, tired, not able to. Certainly not going to be flitting off into the forest.

“Fuck,” he says, and I register a vague surprise that elves speak so.

He looks at me again, and I – I reach out and, for the first time, I touch his pretty hair as I have wanted to so much – so very much.

“Soft,” I say, and then – because, really, does it matter now? “Pretty. I – you’re so lovely.”

It isn’t enough.

It doesn’t even come close to how I feel, how I want, how – how right now – I wish – I had done things differently.

How I wish there had been more time.

That perhaps – perhaps another world, another time – we could have been something wonderful – and maybe it’s just bloodloss showing, but – but oh I wish I had the words to say something of it.

He shakes me, and leans closer,

“I will find you,” he says, intent, “listen to me, I will find you. Stay alive. Whatever it takes. I will find you – I promise you. If it takes a thousand years, I will come.”

And – his mouth is on mine again, but not just the gentle press of before, this is something harder, more serious, this – this is a vow. 

Then he is gone.

I can hear the shouts of the English getting quieter now – less of them – and the Indians are coming closer, working their way towards me – and – I find I don’t care much.

Tired.

Too tired.

Wait, he said. Not sure I can do that. Not sure I can keep alive.

Then I hear his words again – I will find you – and it makes me smile.

But – I don’t have a thousand years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimli tries his (rusty) ancestral languages;  
> Denk je nederlands spreken - do you speak Dutch
> 
> Talar du svenska - do you speak Swedish
> 
> Legolas speaks a version of Norwegian, only with an appalling Sindar accent (& probably some other mistakes).
> 
> Yeg skil thadh - thadh ere icci langt sidhan vicingar comu adh occar strondum - yeg taladhi therra tungu, for ther voru hugraccir crigmenn - I can understand it, it is not long since the Vikings came to our shores - i spoke their tongue for they were brave warriors, and besides, my father's first elk-trainer was one. 
> 
> Gimli's Swedish again;  
> Jag har dinar kivar. Jag behover din harnal att slappa loss dig - I have your knives. I need your hairpin to get you loose.
> 
> Legolas also speaks Latin;  
> Hoc periculosum est; insidiis factis, nos comprehendemur. Mihi de fide noli loqui; nihil fidei intellegunt - This is dangerous - we will be ambushed. Do not speak to me of honour, they know nothing of honour.
> 
> Milities tui, omnes ad unum, morientur - Your men will all die.
> 
> But returns to Sindarin in frustration;  
> Nath daged dhaer - They are all going to die.


	5. Chapter 5

Drifting – blood loss – I come back to myself as a hand grabs my hair, pulls my head back, and a cold blade is across my forehead.

Fuck.

More than fuck.

Do not cry out. Do not.

I shut my eyes, think of father, mother, think of those I can expect to see in the Halls of Mahal – think of the elf – hope elf is far away by now.

Pretty elf, I think again, and let my thoughts stay there.

The blade stops.

Talking.

Don’t know what they are saying in their bloody language.

The one holding me slaps my face, my eyes open, startled, and I am looking into the face of an Indian – Huron – whatever.

“Nain,” he says, and points at me, “tu. Nain.”

What? 

Oh. 

Yes.

French allies. 

Nod, best I can.

“Oui, je suis un nain,” I say, wondering why that matters, what do they do to dwarves, wondering if my smattering of French, picked up from traders, is going to make sense to him – as much as his does to me, I guess.

He thinks.

Then speaks in his own tongue again, and – and I am pulled up, carted off.

Colonel is brought too.

No others.

Rest – dead.

Except the elf.

And I find a spark of joy that the elf got away.

 

 

 

Hold on to that.

Walking – running – being forced to keep going – pain.

Burns.

Hurts.

Hurts so bad, so fucking bad.

Keep thinking elf safe.

Can’t see colonel.

Don’t know if still alive.

Hurts.

Elf safe.

Really, really hurts.

 

 

 

They stop, and throw me to the ground. 

Can’t take in where I am, pain so bad now.

Think wound infected – going to die slow – bad death.

Should pray.

Can’t.

Can only think of pain.

And elf.

Seeing pretty elf again.

But I won’t.

“Gimli,” it is the colonel. Oh. Still alive then. 

“Gimli,” he breathes heavily, “I don’t know – don’t know what they want – but – don’t give it. Remember, you are a subject of the crown as much as I. Hold on to your honour. Pain will never last as long as shame.”

No.

Way this feels – don’t suppose it will.

But – am I?

Subject of the crown as much as he?

When did I have the choice, swear my allegiance?

Dwarf first.

Swede second.

Was a time father said we should hold to Dutch – they were not so bad. But English – no.

Use the language, everyone does – but – no. I wouldn’t fight in their wars, die for them. 

What would I die for?

And as I think it, I see the elf again, hear his words, ‘Stay alive. Whatever it takes. I will find you – I promise you.’

Wonder if he will.

If I can.

And what payment he will want.

 

 

 

It is a different one who comes and speaks this time – better French perhaps – still no English – but – he goes slow, 

“Tu nain,” he starts, and yes, yes I don’t see why not admit that – it’s bloody obvious surely?

And then I begin to understand.

“Nain – nain aime métaux.”

Pause. I nod, again – why not?

“Tu faire métaux – tu montres.”

Pause.

Me – what – make metal – make what? and – the other – I don’t understand.

He sees I don’t.

Sighs. Tries again.

“Tu montres nous faire métaux,” pauses, sees I am starting to follow him, “hommes ne montres pas. Tu fais ces.”

He waves his gun.

Oh.

Shit.

He wants me to agree to make guns.

Montres.

Does that mean – teach? Something like that?

Shake my head.

He doesn’t like that.

“Tu ne fais, ne montres pas, tu mort.”

With the gesture, it’s pretty easy to get that part.

Fuck.

Stay alive, he said, whatever it takes. And, I think, they have bloody guns anyway – it only helps the French to have them dependent. Certainly don’t want to do that.

Think.

Talk.

Fuck, my French is rusty.

“Je – je peut-être fais – “shit, what is gun? “fais – ci,” point, that works, “mais,” point again, “je fais – ammunition.”

That's not the right word. 

He looks at where I point, looks at me, laughs – of all things – he bloody laughs, says, “munitions, munitions, oui. Et – essaye pistolet.”

Well.

Alright.

I nod.

He grins. Slaps me on back. 

There is a stream of incomprehensible words – could be French, could be his own language – and then – he turns to the colonel.

Colonel, of course, bloody English, speaks no French.

They swear at each other a bit.

Then the Indian – Huron – had better get this right now, I suppose – turns to me again.

“Où est militaires? Où est canon? Où est generales? Il dit, ou il mort.”

“He means it,” I say to the colonel, “tell him – what you know – he is asking where are the soldiers, where are the cannon, where are the generals – I daresay he wants to know plans – anything.”

He looks at me.

“I know what he says,” he shrugs, “My French is better than yours, dwarf. I am not stupid. I had a fine education. But I will not tell him – I would rather die than betray my people.”

“You don’t think they will change their plans once they know you are captured?” I ask, because – surely – that would be obvious.

He looks at me,

“Your people – I had heard dwarves held their honour high,” he says, “yet you – what did you agree – you will give him guns and bullets – you would trade your honour for your life?”

I shrug,

“My people are not at war with these,” I say.

The colonel holds out far longer than I think I would have.

Perhaps because he has reason to, because he loves his homeland, his honour, his – whatever words he is using in his own mind.

I don’t see it all.

Thank Mahal for small mercies, I am in the hands of the healers.

Wound is indeed infected. Fever sets in. 

And for a long time, it seems to matter little what I have agreed, or whether I can bring myself to such betrayal in truth rather than promise.

For a long time, there is little but pain, and burning, and strange tasting drinks, and words I do not know, and – and the thought of the elf – of those words, the promise to find me – of his hair, so soft, so fine – of his kiss.

For a long time, there is nothing in me that remembers all the reasons it is forbidden to want him so.

And then I wake.

 

 

 

I wake and the grinding, aching pain stays with me.

Pain in my leg, that it has not – perhaps will never – become as it was. That I can no longer run, or stand with my weight evenly balanced. That kneeling is become an effort, that to rise and to sit are become problems to plan.

The healer, I think, tells me that it will still improve, that time will help.

I do not know.

But that is not the worst of it.

Pain in – I know not what part of me – that I have sold my honour – that I have agreed to this, to teach what I know, to live as captive, as slave. That were I ever to find my way home – I would perhaps be not welcome, for I have given away all the secrets of dwarves in exchange for merely my life. That were I ever to find my way home – I would be hung as traitor for my choice, were it known.

Yet even that is not the worst of it.

Pain in my heart that – that the elf does not come.

I do not know how long I was ill. Only that the seasons have turned, that summer has moved on, and autumn is here, leaves turning all the glorious colours of a fire, while the air becomes cold, and chill.

Days pass, somewhere weeks are counted, months even.

Snow falls, and I become used to this life.

The people are not much different from others – not really, not in essence.

Oh they have strange customs, strange words, but – they are people. They love their children, they want new things, they enjoy food, and song, war and laughter. The village is small, there are houses, well, huts perhaps, but – each one to a family – a meeting place, places where the women meet to talk, to watch the children, to work together, places where the men meet to talk, to drink, to make plans, to go off to – to hunt, I suppose. In so many ways it is not like my home, not like a village of dwarves – and yet – in so many ways it is the same. People are just people, really, I suppose.

I wonder what a village of elves would be like.

Except he said he was alone. 

Poor elf.

Don’t think about the elf.

I learn – not their language, I would not say that – but some of their words, and they perforce, learn some of mine. There are things I have no French for, and nor do they, things they have no word for in their own tongue, and so I teach them mine – ah, not my own, not the secret tongue of dwarves, yet nor do I teach them the English words, thinking they will not want to use them, allies of the French as they are. And so – I find myself using the Swedish words I learnt from my father.

I wish that I could know all is well with him – yet I cannot – I cannot expect to hear ever again of my family.

Even if the elf comes, I do not see how I can return home.

And the elf does not come.

I suppose I should be glad it was not my arm or hand that was injured. Were I unable to work – I would now be dead. These people have a hard life, they have not the luxury of compassion to those who have not proved their worth.

As it is – I am useful, and, I think, begin to – maybe not quite make friends, but pave the way. I learn names, I learn little things of people, their ways, who is happy, who is not, who sings. In my free time I find myself carving little things – birds, deer, wolves – as I used. There are always scraps of wood or bone around – and – children are children, the world over, whatever race.

Huron children are not so very different from dwarrowlings. 

They pick up speech faster than their parents, and have more patience with me – no, not more patience, simply – they care less when I stumble over words.

The winter is cold. 

Not, I suppose, really, so very much colder than at home.

But – I do not rank high here. I have no solid house of stone, as dwarves like, I have no furs to curl under.

It occurs to me, that had I not followed my longing for adventure, my dreams of excitement, I would now be married. Warmed at night by my wife.

And as spring moves to summer – I wonder what our child would have been like. Whether we would have had one on the way by now.

Boy or girl.

One to laugh or to cry.

I wonder how the birth would have gone.

I imagine the joy on my parents’ faces – on her parents’ faces. And I realise – her parents may still have that joy – we were not in love, there is no reason for her to wait for me. She will think me dead – and will, I daresay, have married another. My cousin, perhaps.

I hope they are happy, and as I find myself thinking it, I realise – truly, I did not wish to marry her – perhaps that is even why I threw myself into this quest for adventure, why I left, why I convinced myself I needed more money. She is fair, and pleasant, and I know nothing against her.

But it is not her I think of, when I lie alone at night.

I think of her, and the way I thought my life would go, during the day, when I watch the village, when I talk to the children, when I work, and do also the tasks which any Man in this place leaves to his woman – but I have none to cook for me, to wash, to darn, to do all such things. It is, perhaps, as well that to a dwarf such tasks are but tasks – there is no shame in my doing them. I think for a Man – they would be impossible.

I do not know the ways of elves.

It begins to look as though I never will.

The elf – my elf – does not come.

He is not my elf. Except, at night, when I am alone, and cold, and weary of this sadness – I let myself imagine him as mine.

I let myself wonder what it would be to – to touch him. As the days pass, and he does not come – I think there is no harm in – in admitting to myself – I wanted to touch him, to stroke his hair – to perhaps – hold him close, and – and all the things for which I have no words, all the acts that – that I know are shame, and dishonour, and – and wrong. Yet – if not for that – why have I stayed alive?

Why do I wait for him?

And does it matter what I want, if he does not come?

 

 

 

Autumn comes again, and I have been with these people a year – more if I count the time I was sick.

I don’t let myself think about the colonel, long dead, about my parents, who must now have given up hope and begun to grieve. I think about the girl I did not marry, and I hope she and my cousin are content. I have decided to tell myself that they will have married, that they have a child born and perhaps another on the way. I can’t know, I won’t know, ever, so I may as well invent a story.

I hope they let my parents enjoy the children.

I wonder if my sister has suitors yet.

I think of the elf – when I can’t stop myself – and I wonder if he is dead.

‘I will find you’ he said. But I remember his words – ‘if it takes a thousand years, I will find you’ and I wonder if he is so much of an elf that he has forgot how easy mortals die.

Even dwarves, eventually.

The crops have not done well – apparently – so I hear the people saying. What do I know? I am a dwarf. We do not grow crops.

We do pick up languages fast though, and I am able to understand the talk. The speculation as to why – this land should have been good for more years yet – but it is worn out.

Maybe it is just not good land, some say.

Maybe it is a sign that they should move north, away from the war, the struggle between French and English.

Maybe it is because they have taken into their village one who works with iron. One who makes tools to strip more from the land than it is ready to give.

One who makes the white-man’s weapons.

In my own mind, I wonder why that would be worse than using them, but I have the wit not to let on I understand, and not to try to argue.

I simply keep on, quietly, with the tasks I am given, the teaching I am asked for, and, when I have time to myself, I do my best to look – unthreatening. Ordinary.

I carve toys for children.

I mend my clothes.

I limp a little more than I need.

I keep my eyes down, and hope for the best.

Hope for the elf to come.

 

 

 

Winter sets in, and it is cold again. Colder than last year. 

Or else I am more worn.

Less hopeful.

This year, I don’t think of my nearly-bride, I don’t think of my parents, I don’t think of my home. I think only of what must be done, of the making and shaping of metals, of feeding myself, of keeping warm.

And sometimes, at night, alone, I let myself think of the elf.

Not, now, thoughts of him coming, of daring rescue, of – of being somehow redeemed, led away from here – not serious thoughts at all.

Simply – thoughts of what might have happened between us.

Of – touching.

Of warmth and heat, and strength. Of a mouth pressed to mine, but in my imaginings, he does not pull away, it is not a vow, it is – a beginning, a sweet exploration, a mixing of tongues and tastes and in my thoughts hands reach out, and hold and explore also.

I let myself imagine touching – touching him – what would his skin be like? So soft, I think, so soft and warm, and I wonder how he would sound, if I were to – and the very thought is wrong, is enough to see me into all the fires of hell, so the preachers would say, enough that Mahal would wonder at me, would think me unfit perhaps to work his praise, so the grags would tell me – but both preachers and grags seem a long way from here, and at night I am so very much alone – that I let my thoughts wander as they will. I think of him, naked, and close to me, perhaps in a wood, or in a bed, I care not, it is only imagination, but – oh to see him like that – spread out, welcoming me – allowing me to touch – holding me, and at the thought, the very thought of him, warm and real, holding me, perhaps – perhaps touching me also – and I must put one hand over my mouth to stifle my own gasp of release.

I have not words for more – only a longing, a wish to – to hold him, touch him, learn – learn what it is I want.

Something that could never, would never happen.

I don’t know what he wanted, but he was an elf – they are strange creatures, I tell myself. Whatever it seemed as though he wanted – he didn’t. 

He wanted a companion to travel West.

That is all.

Perhaps that is why he does not come. Perhaps he realised that the wound on my leg prevents my being any use to him.

In a way, I would prefer that to the idea that he has simply forgotten me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Gimli translated almost all the French here.   
> Nain - dwarf.


	6. Chapter 6

Winter begins to retreat, and I find that the crops were so bad last year, that it has been decided – I do not know who decides such things, what does it matter, it is not me – that the people will up and move. Taking me with them.

At first, I understand from dropped words, it was thought that I was of little more use – and might be best left.

I doubt they meant to let me go free.

Oh elf, I think, will you not come for me?

But he does not.

And so I pack up my store of tools, of blanket, cooking pot, clothes, this and that, all that I own in this world – all that could be taken from me at a word – and I follow.

North, I think. But in truth, all directions seem alike to me. What difference does it make?

 

 

 

Had not realised how bad my leg still is.

Always I am struggling to keep going, to move at the pace expected of me, and at the end of each day’s journey, I move in a daze, trying to conceal the worst.

I have no illusions. There is little I have not taught by now – I may be more skilled than those who have learnt my secrets, but they would not hesitate to rid themselves of me if I slow them on this migration.

Each day, each night, I wonder if it is truly worth the pain.

The elf does not come. 

For whatever reason – he may be dead, he may be imprisoned, he may have forgotten me.

He does not come.

 

 

 

I am dwarf. I do not give up, do not give in.

We reach this new place, and as I am commanded, I play my part in the building, the creation of a village much like the last.

Days pass, and I am back to my work, though I notice there are many who do not now want iron tools. 

Guns and bullets though – those seem acceptable.

Spring draws on, crops are planted and tended – or whatever one does to crops – and the weather becomes warmer. Autumn comes again – earlier here, it seems to me – and then winter, cold and lonely, gives way to spring.

Children grow, as children do.

I continue to carve little trinkets, to amuse, but I notice that some of those who were so pleased with them – are now too old for such games, become men or women, with weightier matters on their minds.

They speak of marriages, and I remember days when I thought I would marry.

I don’t grieve for that.

Only – I wish I knew what had become of the elf.

 

 

 

My answer comes, one day.

It is a normal day, quiet, I am busy, as ever, melting down collected, used shot to make more.

Suddenly there is a lot of excitement, shouting. Someone unknown has arrived, is walking into the village.

The men mob the newcomer, so that I do not see him.

I do not go to watch the council that takes place.

Such matters are not my concern. I am not, and will never be, one of this tribe.

I can hear shouting, but I don’t go to look.

Doubtless there will be a resolution.

One of the men comes to get me. I don’t understand. What have I done? I have done all I was asked to do. 

I try and ask, where am I going, what is happening, but my words dry up.

The elf is standing there. 

Waiting for me.

I look at him, and he nods. No hint of a smile.

He beckons, 

“Come,” he says, “a bargain has been made. Come.”

I don’t understand.

“Allez,” the man says to me, “allez maintenant.”

I hesitate.

“You may not take anything,” the elf says. “I am sorry. They will not let you. I will explain. Come now, please. Dwarf, my – my dear – I do not know your full name, your formal name – but, come with me.”

He still sounds stern, and cross – as though he is impatient with his purchase, save for that brief endearment, which I almost think I did not really hear.

“Il a payé,” I am told by one who – who I had come to think of as almost a friend. I made your weapon, I want to say, I made the shot that feeds you, I made the toys that make your child happy, I made the tools you use day in, day out – and you sell me. 

But – you have sold me to the one I have been thinking of all these days and nights.

So I duck my head in pretended shame and defeat, and I follow my – what – master, saviour, lover – I don’t know – my elf.

My dear.

“Just keep walking,” he says, “do not look, do not ask questions, I will explain later.”

I follow.

I see – children – children of Men – children I do not know – being appraised, judged. I smell the smoke of new-lit fires, and a coldness creeps over me even as I follow him.

These people are strange and harsh. I do not know what they plan, what he has agreed. All the old stories fill my head – all the tales of wild Indians, of sacrifice and all the memories of the agonies the colonel suffered. 

Surely he would not agree to that – to the hurting of children? But what do I know of elves? All I know is that they are not dwarves, they are strange.

That no good ever came of elves. 

Never trust an elf.

Only I know I don’t mean it. Fuck, I can’t help myself – I trust him, I – I would, I realise, follow him anywhere. However far. Whatever the cost.

He strides along, and it is all I can do to keep up with him.

We leave the village, me a few paces behind, as is proper, I suppose, and he heads – by the sun I would say – west.

Something in me smiles.

He walks in silence, fast and determined. 

I don’t know where he is leading me.

I don’t care.

The sun is past midday, sinking into a long evening, when he slows a little, allowing me to walk with him, allowing me breath to speak.

“What is going on?” I ask, stupidly.

He looks at me, and raises one eyebrow,

“I am rescuing you,” he says, “I told you I would come. I hoped to be faster. There were – difficulties.”

“Difficulties?” I ask, “what the fuck do you mean, there were difficulties?”

He flushes, just slightly,

“I was unfortunate enough to run into – no. I left you – as you know. I tracked you – to their village. I saw what happened – I heard you agree – knew you would be kept alive. Your wound – there was no way to take you, to attack and have you run – you were not able. And I could see you were become valuable to them. So I returned to Albany – to raise the – ransom, I suppose you would say.”

I remember what I saw – the children – and I feel cold again.

“What did you do?” I ask.

He smiles, cold and mirthless,

“For many months – I did nothing. I was, I found, considered responsible for the loss of the column. As the only survivor – I was assumed traitor. They said – did you know – they said that elves were not to be trusted. That this was why – did you know – why there are none now to be found in the Old World. Why they – we – my kin – were – they said exterminated. You said you thought there were no more elves – did you know this had happened? Do you know the truth of it? I – I will not believe it, I will not believe I am the last. They would have hidden – we are good at hiding – retreated – some may have faded, dwindled, but – I am not the last,” 

He repeats it as though that will make it true.

I am more doubtful, but – it is not as though either of us is going there to find out, so – what harm in letting him keep some illusions? I remember how he spoke of his father, his mother, before – and – I nod,

“Not the last,” I say, “they will be hidden. As peoples not Men often must do. But – there will be a day when they return, when they sail West also – and – you will be waiting.”

He bites his lip, trying not to show whatever it is he feels, and then – so strange are elves – a shrug, a swallow, and he speaks again,

“I was lucky to not be hung,” he touches his neck, and I see – the gold chain is gone. He sees me look,

“Yes. I paid. But when once that was sorted out – I could no longer stay in Albany. I shall not be returning there. In fact – I fear there are not many places under British jurisdiction I am now welcome. I paid, which kept me alive long enough to – release myself, shall we say?” he sighs, “and good men – honest men – died because they would not take bribes, would not look away for me.”

Well, that is the way of such things, I suppose. But I am shocked by his coldness.

“It was necessary,” he says, “I wished to come for you. They were in the way. But then I had still to raise your price. Once Albany was not – comfortable – it took me some time – going among the smaller places – to find children enough to be sure of getting them to you, and being still valuable.”

I look at him, and I look away, but I cannot but ask,

“Please no – you stole children? You sold children?”

And the look of horror on his face is sweet for the reassurance it gives me.

“Ai!” he says, “what are Naugrim that you can ask this? No. They are orphans – know you so little of the ways of Men? Among my people – any of my peoples – Silvan, Sindar – elves, to you – to Tuscarora or any Iroquois – Indians you call them – such children would have a place found. Would be treasured. Among the English – the French – it is not so. Men are strange. Such children would be – prey. Used, made to work, left to starve – it is not pleasant.”

“And among Hurons?” I ask, hoping for comfort,

“Among the Hurons – they will be adopted into the tribe. There will be a feast tonight, they will be found parents, families, they will be used to swell the numbers – they will never go home, but they will never be unwanted or left to starve. It seemed a good trade to me.”

I nod, because – perhaps it was.

I am sure he knows more of such things than I. Certainly, I never saw any in the village be unkind to a child.

He falls silent, and I – don’t know what else to ask.

Why did you come for me at all – sounds ungrateful.

What do you plan to do now – pathetic.

How the fuck am I supposed to amount to anything with no tools but my pocket-knife – uncooperative.

I have thought of you so many nights, and yet I do not know what I want of you – nor what you would have from me – pathetic, and sinful.

So I stay quiet, and concentrate on moving.

It has been many months since I walked so far. By the time the light fails enough that he stops – I am exhausted.

I sit where he bids me.

When he has lit the fire, he tells me to tend it, and I do, best I can, while he goes off.

He comes back with a couple of rabbits – dinner, I suppose – skins and guts them, and puts them on sticks to cook.

“You don’t eat raw meat, do you?” he says, and I remember his surprise at that before. 

“No,” I say, and then, “I do have a knife you know. Good enough for that. I don’t have anything else. You didn’t let me –“

He holds up a hand,

“No, and I am sorry. There was not time – I feared – there were some among the Huron who were reluctant to let you go. Not from affection I think. I – I am sorry it took me so long to find you,” he adds.

I shrug,

“You came,” I say, because – what else can I say?

“Yes,” he says, and then – he looks down and away, and then back at me, and we sit, just looking at each other while the meat cooks.

As we eat, I find the words to say,

“What next? I – somehow I doubt there is much for me to return to. My family will think I am dead – with honour. It is perhaps best left.”

He gives a strange little half-smile,

“Your family are best left indeed. You are assumed dead, I think, along with all those others. Were you to reappear – I suspect you would find yourself in like case to mine. Condemned as traitor. I thought – you spoke of going West. We could go together. Slowly,” he smiles at me, and I grunt, discomforted at the reminder of my injury, “slowly because – we have all the time in the world – well, all the time of your mortal days – and slowly because – “ he flushes, and looks down, and then looks up again, “because there is much I would say to you, many of your ways I would learn – I – I said before – I hoped to court you. I – I would stay at your side all the years of your life – I – I do not know how dwarves view such matters – but – to me – it seems that you are the One I have waited for so long. I – it is hard to explain – an elf – we know when we are with such a One – I suppose you cannot hear the song of the trees, the – the rightness.”

He stops, and waits.

Waits for me to speak.

Come on, Gimli, speak.

“I – I had wondered if you would come,” I say, and clumsy, unused to such talk, I retreat into practicalities, “I – yes. I spoke of going West once. It was then my dream. Now – “ I shrug, and gesture to my lame leg, to my poverty, my dependence, my lack of choices, “now – it seems I have little choice. I can’t go home, so, yes, I will go where you go. After all, I am deep in your debt, I think.”

He looks – horrified,

“I do not consider – among my people it would be wrong to consider – you to be in my debt. Please, do not think that. I came for you to ease my own heart. And now – now I would have us take time to – to draw together,” he pauses, then, quietly adds, “or not. If – if you do not want me. There is no obligation. Simply a – a hope that you had missed me – thought of me – could care for me also.”

Oh.

He sounds so – sad. Something in me hurts, and – and – and oh damn them – damn the priests and the grags, and the gossips, and the rules and the lies, and – and all of it. I want to reach out to him, say how I feel, how I missed him, thought of him, how – how I want to touch and hold, and – and all the things I have let myself imagine.

But I can’t. Even now.

I can’t.

Because I don’t know what it is he wants in return.

And – because I am afraid.

I poke the fire, needlessly, and manage to say,

“My heart is eased by your company also,” and I see him flush again, and something in me leaps and burns, “but – slowly might be a good idea.”

He nods, and we sit as the fire burns down.

After a while, he takes out his comb, as he did before, and he sings to himself, quietly, as he combs his hair.

He must know I am watching, I think.

Then – then he gives me a sidelong glance, and raises an eyebrow, and it is my turn to blush as he says,

“Dwarf, whose proper name I still know not, Legolas Thranduilion, once Prince of the Woodland Realm, once adopted into the Tuscarora tribe, now alone with nothing but knife and bow to live by, asks you – will you comb me, let me comb you, together, just you and I, as it seems to me we should be?”

I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care.

He is all I want – all I will have, probably, for the rest of my life. 

I reach out, and take the comb, and he settles in front of me. His hair needs no attention, it is perfect, but – it feels soft, and wonderful, and touching him at last makes me smile. He gives a little sigh, and I – I think this is perhaps all I need.

To travel, slowly, west, with my elf. To sit each night by a fire, together, and comb his hair, listen to him sing.

It doesn't sound much.

But I think it might be enough.

“My name is Gimli Glöinsson,” I say, and he leans back into my hands, his voice murmuring in his seemingly endless song, “and it seems to me also that we should be like this.”


End file.
